


Rampion and Ginger Hair

by Scarlett_Oakenshield



Series: Good Omens Fairytale Collection [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rapunzel Fusion, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Rapunzel Elements, Romance, Romantic Comedy, crowley is rapunzel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlett_Oakenshield/pseuds/Scarlett_Oakenshield
Summary: This is the story of how Aziraphale died. No, this is actually a very happy story about a young man in a tower with seventy feet of curly red hair.A magic flower. A humble bookkeeper. A prisoner in a tower. Fate brings them together. It's a story we know, but this time it's Crowley's.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Fairytale Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683589
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59





	1. Agnes and the Flower

~1~

The story of the ancient Healing Flower was a defining aspect of the folklore in a quaint little town called Tadfield. Not the one in the UK, the one you’d find in a fairytale storybook. The one with a lake and a bridge between the village and the woods, which were, coincidentally enough, called Hogback Wood. The one with narrow cobbled streets, and a town square. And instead of an air base, there’s just more trees. Hidden deep within Hogback Wood, is an old stone tower that was once inhabited by a witch named Agnes Nutter. She’s long dead now, but it is rumored that her spirit would not rest until someone came to care for her plants.

I’m getting sidetracked. I was talking about the Healing Flower. Long ago, a drop of sunlight fell from the heavens and landed on earth. From it, grew a flower. Agnes Nutter sensed it had some sort of unearthly power. So, she put it in a pot and studied it, trying to figure out what it could do, writing down everything she learned. At last, she figured out that it possesses healing powers and she could use them to keep herself young for hundreds of years. She also learned that it responded to three incantations: Hope, Healing, and Hurt. The Hope incantation would keep the flower vibrant and beautiful, the Healing incantation was used to help the flower if it began to wither and to heal anyone that touched it from injuries, old age, or other illnesses, and the Hurt incantation would slowly and painfully hurt or even kill the flower or anyone that touched it. That was the one incantation she’d never use.

But keeping the flower’s abilities to herself never set right with her. For she was a kind woman and wanted to use them to help. So, she used the flower’s abilities to heal people she found lost in the woods who were sick or injured, and then the villagers began to flock to her for her miracle cure.

Her use of the sundrop was charitable and good, and the flower seemed happy too. It told the sun of its happiness, and that Agnes deserved a gift. So, he sent down more drops of sunlight. And from those grew a dozen more flowers.

Agnes continued to use them for good. But with good, there were bad. There were people, greedy, vain people, who knew of the sundrop’s power and wanted it for themselves. There was a mob that formed and went to storm the tower.

So, to protect the sun’s gift, Agnes had to make a sacrifice. She let some of her flowers wither. Others she cut and used up. She only kept one plant with four buds. She hid all the research she had done on it, she put a spell on the flower so it would close and never bloom again until someone sang the song, and then she hid it from the world. After that, she disappeared.

Some people say she died, but the body was never found. Others believe she had taken the sundrop and fled Tadfield, using it to keep herself alive. No one ever went back to the old tower because they thought it was haunted. Anyone who dared ventured there came back and said they had heard a whispery voice singing,

_Flower gleam and glow,_

_Let your power shine._

_Make the clock reverse,_

_Bring back what once was mine…_

They also said there were nothing but strange happenings and weird feelings there inside the tower. It became deserted, plants and trees and foliage grew like thick hedges around it, and most people forgot it was there. It was hidden from the world, fading into legends, folklore, and fairytales. It was romanticized in books, nothing but an old story. That was except to the few people who knew where it was and kept it secret. For most, Agnes had become a mere fairytale figure, but celebration and honoring of the mystical Sundrop Flower and its power became a defining aspect of Tadfield’s culture.

Most people in Tadfield nowadays see the Sundrop flower as a legend, like Nessie. But there are some who still search for it. No one good, I’m afraid. Just selfish and vain people who want it for themselves.

But they’ll never get their hands on it, even if they somehow stumble upon the hidden tower. Because the tower is well guarded. Agnes never left it. Her spirit, to this day, still guards the other plants, and keeps the sundrop flower hidden. She’s a bit restless though, she must confess, and she longs for the day that someone can come guard the Sundrop and tend her plants, so she can finally be at peace. 

* * *

-xXx-

Enough of my babbling on about Agnes and her magic flower though. Let us now jump forward, to the future. To where our story truly begins. 

A young lad was arrested for rampion theft. The governor of Tadfield ordered him to be locked away. They sent Hastur, who was vain and cruel and slightly mad, to guard him. Along with being cruel, he was ruthless, and he had been given strict orders to lock the young man away in the haunted, hidden tower in the forest. 

When he was 16, he got very sick. No one was coming to care for him and Hastur wouldn’t call for a doctor. Time was running out. And so, Agnes, being the kindly spirit she was, appeared to him and awoke the sundrop flower. She used one of the blooms to save his life and then put the rest of them to sleep again. He was delirious and barely remembered her face when he woke up. But he woke up with a key to the old chest at the foot of the bed. When he opened it, he found all of Agnes’s research on the flower and the sundrop sitting on his windowsill. He had already been caring for her plants, and in his gratitude, he swore he’d care for them for as long as he stayed in that tower. Having done one last good deed, and having found someone to care for her plants, Agnes was finally at peace, and she departed to the afterlife. 

The young man, who was called Crowley, was locked away when he was thirteen, and for the past fifteen years, his life had been in the tower. It was hard to imagine what was beyond the towering, gray brick walls. He saw the world only through the little window. And it was the same thing. The clearing with the meadow and the stream, and beyond that, thick trees and bushes that served as a wall between him and the rest of the world.

Being trapped wasn’t all bad, though. He would keep the tower nice and tidy, tend the houseplants, sleep, cook, listen to music, paint on the walls, twirl about the small, rounded floor, and brush his long red hair. He kept his face cleanly shaven, but he never, ever cut his hair. It was so long, it nearly reached the grass, and it was full of lovely curls and waves and often done up in a thick plait. He took great pride in it. The red locks, when completely loose, caught in the sunlight streaming in from the window and looked like sleek, liquid lava, pouring down the tower wall. It was lovely enough to make Legolas jealous. 

* * *

Crowley wakes up to the sunlight streaming in through the cracks in his curtains. He yawns and stretches his arms above his head, waking up like every stereotypical princess protagonist ever, except he’s got the worst case of bedhead ever.

He gets up, and gets dressed, and exits his room. Bare feet fall lightly against the steps of the swirling staircase as he moves from the attic to the main living space. Once he’s downstairs, he pulls his favorite record from the shelf and puts it on, turning it up to the loudest volume it could go. Music blares cheerfully from the gramophone speaker and he sets to work on his daily routine.

He cooks up his simple breakfast of eggs, jam, and bread, eats quickly, does the dishes, and then goes upstairs again to brush his teeth and shave.

He comes downs again, to sweep, polish, and mop. Once the floor is sparkling, he takes the watering can and fills it up at the sink. He proceeds to his favorite activity of the day next to dancing and painting: taking care of his plants.

The tower always smelled like fresh plants and sweet flowers, because they were in every part of the house. For as mean as Hastur was, at least he brought him plants and flowers from the market almost every day. They were the finest looking plants and flowers in the town. But no one knew that, because most people didn’t even know that Crowley existed.

He took pride in them, but he was unbearably harsh on the poor things. As he’s going to water the plants, he notices one doesn’t look as perfect as the rest of them. It was the rampion lettuce. No, not the one he stole, the one that Hastur had brought him as a joke. 

His eyes narrow. He sets down the watering can. “Is that a spot?” he scrutinizes closer, “It is!” he exclaims. He picks up the plant, which appears to be trembling, “You know what you’ve done.” He steps into the middle of the room and says, “Let your friend serve as an example for all of you!” he growls sharply, turning around to address every plant in the circular studio space.

Then, he marches over to the window and casts the rampion out. It plummets down the stone structure, into the rushing water of the creek below, where it is carried to oblivion. He dusts off his hands with a brisk nod and continues to water everyone else both upstairs and down. Once he’s finished, he washes his hands, gets the brush from his room, puts on a new record, exhales, and sit on the windowsill. He proceeds with the strenuous task of brush a brush a brushing and braiding his hair while he gazes longingly out the window with gold eyes.

The task of hair brushing, along with the rest of what he’s done today, have worn him down, so he goes back upstairs to take a nap. He dreams of far off places, new dance routines, and rampion.

-xXx-

He’s rudely woken up to an obnoxious voice yelling. “CROWLEY!” from a distance, “CROWLEY! OH CROWLEY! CROWLEY! LET DOWN YOUR HAA-AAIR!”

_God dammit!_ He thinks bitterly. He pulls himself begrudgingly out of bed and rushes down the stairs towards the window.

“CROWLEY! HURRY UP CROWLEY! LET DOWN YOUR HAAA-AAIR!”

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” he walks over to the window and peers down to the weasel-like man with a grimy, scarred, weather-worn face and a mess of white hair. Even from here, Crowley can see the soulless black eyes and thin lips with the pipe between his teeth. He loops the hair through the iron hook above the curtain and lets it fall out the window his perfectly brushed hair out the window, deliberately aiming for Hastur’s face. The figure below darts away, “Watch it Crowley!” he exclaims sharply. Crowley mock apologizes. Hastur climbs up his red braid, and Crowley tries not to grimace at the weight.

“I brought the ingredients for dinner,” he says, thrusting the basket into Crowley’s hands, “Get cookin’.” He sits down in the armchair in front of the crackling fire and props up his dirty boots on the end table. Crowley turns away and turns up his nose, scowling as the cigarette fogs up the room and overpowers the sweet scent of flowers. He sets the table, and both sit down. They eat in silence before Hastur looks up and asks:

“What did you accomplish today? I had plenty of civic duties to keep me busy.”

“Like you care, Hastur. I do the same thing I always do! Every day it’s the same boring routine. Can’t I go outside? I don’t see the problem as long as I don’t go beyond the clearing.”

“NO! No, you cannot. You are a prisoner. You should feel lucky you live here on house arrest and not in a cell, like every other prisoner. I don’t know what made Beelzebub think you deserve a fully functioning home. Do not ask to leave this tower again or I will persuade her to reconsider her decision.” 

The matter is not discussed further. Hastur leaves the tower again, leaving dirt on the clean floor and dirty dishes on the wood table, and so Crowley has to tidy again before going to bed.

* * *

“Is there anything else you need from me today, Mr. Fell?” the young woman addresses the bookkeeper at his desk.

Aziraphale, the bookkeeper, a gentleman with curly white-blonde hair and bright doe eyes, smiles at her warmly, “No. That’s quite alright, Anathema. You can run along home. I’m sure your mother and husband are missing you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fell.” she says politely. She crosses behind him to get her bread and her coat.

“Oh, and please, take some hot cocoa as a bonus for working so hard this week.” he adds. He hands her the small cylindrical container he’s put the powder in. It’s enough for three servings, one for each of them- Anathema, her husband, and her mother.

“Thanks again. Goodnight!” she replies. She takes the container and then crosses towards the door. Once she pushes it open and steps out into a cool evening, the little bell chimes. When it closes behind her, the sign reading “Closed” thumps against the window. He sighs, leaning against the back of his chair. He glances at the pile of books and the sad excuse for a manuscript with the inkwell and quill next to it. He briefly considers trying to write some more, but he decides against it in the end. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant he’d be closed to the public. He’d spend the morning shopping for groceries, and perhaps, he thought, find somewhere quiet where he could work on his book or do some light reading.

He was an average, middle-class gentleman. Not particularly rich or poor. Comfortable enough to get by. His quaint little book shop was decently popular, particularly on Fridays and Saturdays. He prided himself in his collections of editions, and his rarities. There were some books he kept in the back for himself, but most he had on display to sell. There were different genres, play scripts, how-to books, art books, hobby-based books, and the like. He taught classes twice a week too. He had a beginner, intermediate, and advanced class that were open to anyone. It didn’t matter the sex, class, race, or age of the person. There was some controversy surrounding this, but it hadn’t roused enough disturbance that the authorities came in to shut it down, and for that, he was grateful.

Needless to say, his weeks were always busy, so he was glad to have tomorrow to himself. With this thought in mind, he makes a cup of hot cocoa, and goes up to bed.


	2. Sundrops to Sundays

~2~

Out of all the plants he had in his “ivory tower”, Crowley’s favorite was his Sundrop. His memory of the day he set Agnes’s spirit free, and the time the old ghost saved his life was not very good. For he had been sick with delirium. But what he did know was that he had vowed to look after Agnes’s plants for as long as he remained in the tower. The Sundrop, which still remained hidden from all the world like he, had been left as a gift from Agnes to him. It had not bloomed though, for all the years he had it. The flowers remained slumbering in their green buds.

_"If you want to wake it up, sing the "Hope" incantation. If you see it start to wither, sing the "Healing" Incantation. But never sing the "Hurt" Incantation. You'll hurt the flower and yourself."_

There were a few things that kept Crowley from waking the flower. One, was that he was aware of how precious it had been to Agnes, and because of that, he vowed to never use it or waste its power unless he had absolute need of it. Two, waking it would put him and the flower in danger, he would constantly be a-worry about it falling into the wrong hands. Three, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid of its power. He didn’t want to be corrupted by it. But his curiosity was slowly killing him. And one day, he couldn’t take it anymore and he was hopelessly bored. So, he decided to wake the flower from its slumber.

He huffs. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this for you.” he tells the plant. He gives it some more water and then sits down beside. He draws in a breath.

_“Power of the sun_

_Gift me with your light_

_Shine into the dark_

_Restore our fading sight…”_

Before his eyes, the buds start to open. He gapes for a moment, but then continues,

_“Rise into the dawn_

_Blazing star so bright_

_Burn away the strife_

His hair feels strangely warm, but he doesn’t think much of it. He is too fascinated by the flower to realize that his hair has taken on an unearthly glow...

_Let my hope ignite_

_Let hope ignite.”_

After he finishes the song, he looks down, and he discovers that the flowers have fully bloomed.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

He closes the book and finishes watering his plants.

* * *

_"The Sundrop flower makes very good tea"._

* * *

After watering the plants, he again goes about his daily routine. He finishes early and finds himself rather bored, so he decides to try making one of the Sundrops into tea. He goes over to the plant and snips off one of the flowers. Immediately, the stem it was cut from withers and turns brown before his eyes. _Shit! I wasn't supposed to do that..._

* * *

_I_ _f you cut a bloom from the stalk, it will not grow back. The flower itself will keep its power, but the stalks will wither and decay._

* * *

He follows the recipe for tea, and burns his hand in the process. 

“Oww! Shit!” he hisses sharply. He pulls his hand back and runs it under cold water. But the stinging doesn’t stop. He pats it dry and examines it. The burn is stinging and glaring red. He huffs.

_Might as well try this healing spell._ He thinks dryly.

He turns back to flower and cups the full bloom with his damaged hand.

_“Flower, gleam and glow,_

_Let your power shine._

_Make the clock reverse,_

_Bring back what once was mine._

_Heal what has been hurt,_

_Change the fate’s design._

_Save what has been lost._

_Bring back what once was mine,_

_What once was mine…_

The flower glows brightly, and he feels a gentle warmth course through his hand, pulsing gently through his veins. He sighs as he is enveloped from the inside out by the feeling. And when he looks down, the burn on his hand is completely gone. And again, he remains oblivious to the fact that his hair has started glowing again. 

“Well, fuck.” he says, “That’s a thing…” he smiles softly at the flower, “I’m going to keep your power hidden from Hastur.” He moves the Sundrop from the tower windowsill to the one in his room, and closes the door, hiding the plant behind the curtains.

When he gets back downstairs, he pours his sundrop tea into a cup and takes a sip. It is smooth and sweet and delicious. He isn’t a tea person, but this tea is truly remarkable, and it envelopes him with the same warmth it did when he touched it, although this one is more of a warm and cozy feeling—like the kind you get when you drink hot cocoa, than a spring warmth feeling like touching the flower does. He could almost say it is less potent. He drinks one more cup before he is hit with an idea.

“I wonder if this’ll work on my other plants…” he thinks aloud. He uses the leftover tea and pours it into the vases.

The next day when he wakes up, the plants look even more brilliant than before. So, he cuts the second flower, grinds it up, and dissolves it into hot water, making an elixir for his plants. He puts it into an empty spray bottle. That way it would last longer. He leaves the last bloom alone.

From Sundrops, we go back to Sundays.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes up late, by his standards, which is about eight o’clock in the morning. He makes a morning cup of tea and spends some time reading before he goes to the market for his biweekly shopping trip. He wears the same tan coat and matching hat, carrying his basket on his elbow.

He walks down the cobbled streets, whistling quietly and saying his hellos to the people passing by as he follows the masses to the square. A “gang” of local children, referred to as “the Them”, fly by him, nearly running into him. They about skid to a stop and one of the boys nearly spills his ice cream all over Aziraphale’s front.

“Oh!” says the leader, Adam, “Excuse us, Mr. Fell.”

“That’s alright.” he replies with a chuckle. They rush past him. He continues on, taking samples from each stand when they’re offered to him, leaving a small tip at each, but only buying the things he needs. That is when he sees a familiar stand.

“Good morning, Mr. Aziraphale!” greets the woman. She’s older, wearing colorful, draping clothes, with the brightest and curliest red hair he’s ever seen.

“Hello, Mrs. Tracy-Shadwell.” he replies, smiling warmly.

“Come to buy the special _tea_ , I’d imagine?” she guesses, referring to the featured custom tea blend she had today. She was a nice lady who sold homemade tea. She had the best tea blends in the town, and no one else made them because they’d never be able to make tea as good as hers.

“Indeed, I have, dear lady.” he replies. She pours a sample into one of her colorful shot glasses and hands it to him. It’s a lovely pink color in the clear glass.

“It’s rose hibiscus.” she tells him. He takes a sip. As usual, it’s absolutely perfect the way it is, not a single sugar needed.

“It’s wonderful, as always.” Aziraphale praises.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Shadwell?” she calls over her shoulder to her husband, “The customers like it.”

“I still think it’s too pink, Jezebel.” replies the Scotsman gruffly from behind her.

She chuckles, “Always a harsh critic that one~” she says, “Anyway. Will you be taking some home with you, then?”

“As always.” Aziraphale replies, “I’m low on tea again.”

“Why you’ve just bought some off me last week!” she exclaims, beaming. She calls sweetly, “Mr. Shadwell, get me a tin of the rose hibiscus, please.” The Scotsman grumbles to himself but does what he’s told, “There you are.” He sets it down in front of her and then goes back to organizing the tins behind her. Aziraphale pays her, leaves a generous tip, and then starts towards the next vendor. He finishes his shopping and goes home. He puts away his groceries, and then repacks his basket with his book, manuscript, inkwell and quills, a water, and a small snack, before leaving for an afternoon walk in the forest.


	3. Melodies and Tangled Hair

~3~

Aziraphale follows the path through the lush green trees. The wind gently whistles through the leaves, and the quiet sound is accompanied by a symphony of singing birds and the baseline of a steady babbling creek. His quiet footfalls serve as gentle drumbeats.

Then, another sound passes over his ears. Someone’s voice. That someone, as you might have guessed, was Crowley, singing in his solitude.

He strains his ears to listen. It was truly lovely singing that graced his ears. Enamored by the voice, he follows the sound right through a wall of densely packed foliage, stepping through a tunnel and into a clearing. The clearing is complete with a grassy field and the creak, and in the middle is an old stone tower with tendrils and tendrils of ivy vines snaking tightly around the bricks. He follows the tendrils all the way up to the window. The drapes have been opened, and lovely plants are arranged neatly upon the windowsill. The singing is coming from inside the tower, and it is accompanied by the soft murmur of music.

The melody carries with the breeze, gracing his ears with the sweet, slightly raspy tone. The voice belonged to a man and it was neither high nor deep. Aziraphale listens contently, watching closely, hoping that he might catch a glimpse of the voice’s owner. But the window is too high up for him to get a good look.

_I’ll wait until the song is over,_ he decides, _And maybe then, I’ll reveal myself._ So, he leans against one of the nearby trees, dipping his toes in the cool water and lets the sound envelope his ears. He closes his eyes and quietly hums along.

-xXx-

Crowley’s apron swishes about his legs as he twirls and dances about and mops the floor. He isn’t paying much attention. No, rather, he’s living in the moment. Which isn’t a very smart thing to do when you have seventy feet of loose hair, just saying. And, he isn’t much aware of this- the only thing he notices is the fact that his movements strangely start to feel heavier and more restricted. And then, he’s stiff as a pole, tangled in his own hair. He loses his footing and falls to the floor with a surprised cry.

“FUCK!”

He stumbles into the nearby shelf. He tries in vain to break his fall by grabbing onto the basket of hair supplies, but he knocks it over and all of ribbons, brushes, combs, shampoos and conditioners and everything falls to the ground with a loud clatter.

“Well great!” Crowley exclaims with agitation, “Now I’ve gotta clean that up! Uggh.”

“Excuse me!” calls a strange, sweet voice from below, “E-excuse me! Hello? Hello up there! Are you alright!? I heard a crash!”

Crowley tries to get up, but he’s tangled in his hair like a cat gets tangled up in yarn and can’t move.

“I’m a bit tied up at the moment!” Crowley yells back. He somehow manages to find a strand that’s he’s not caught up in, and with some careful maneuvering he gets it out the window.

“Use that to climb up! But I swear if you laugh at me, I’ll hit you with a frying pan…or something!”

From below he hears someone approaching, “What on earth? Is this—sorry, this is…hair!? It must be at least sixty feet long.”

“Seventy, if you must know! C-could you cut the chat and please get up here and help me!?” Crowley asks desperately, flushed red in the face with embarrassment.

“Alright, alright. Just a moment.”

He feels the tugging on his hair, and the familiar feeling of weight as the stranger climbs up huffing and puffing.

When the stranger appears in the tower, Crowley is met with the face and figure of a prim and properly dressed (and adorable) man only slightly older than him, with bright eyes and curly white-blonde hair.

The newcomer doesn’t smile, rather, he looks quite confused, and concerned. And Crowley just sits there for a moment, blinking and staring stupidly with sparkles in his eyes because he’s the protagonist and this is clearly and instance of love at first sight.

“Dear me…” he says.

“I seem to have gotten myself in a bit of a situation.” Crowley says lamely. He’s leaning against the shelf, sitting on part of his hair, with it wrapped taut entirely around his torso, legs and ankles.

“Yes, I can see that.” the stranger says, “Umm....it shouldn’t be that terribly difficult…maybe...hmm…you’re sitting on your hair, so if you try standing it might loosen up…” he walks over and offers Crowley a hand. He helps him into a standing position. But, evidentially, he’s still too tightly tied, and a bit dizzy from spinning about, so he falls forward into the stranger, and then they’re both on the floor, with Crowley awkwardly on top of the other.

“Oh goodness!” the stranger exclaims, flushing a deep red.

“Sorry, this is a bit awkward…” Crowley says stupidly, looking up into his sweet doe eyes with bright gold pools.

“That’s a bit of an understatement!” says the other. He helps Crowley into a sitting position again.

“Oh!” Crowley realizes, “It looks like it loosened up a bit around my ankles.” And so, he carefully uncoils the locks, almost effortlessly, and the curls fall loose again.

“You’ve got combs and brushes and all manner of things sticking in your hair still.” says the other, “May I get them out, Mr.…”

“Crowley. Just Crowley, no need for formalities.” says Crowley, “And you are?”

“Aziraphale.” says Aziraphale.

“Nice to meet you, Aziraphale! And yes, I would very much appreciate if you untangled all those brushes and combs from my hair.” he goes back to the original question.

Aziraphale smiles and chuckles nervously. “Right, jolly good…” he draws in a breath, crosses the room, and starts carefully untangling each item so as not to tug on the brilliant crimson curls.

“How on earth does one manage to have such long hair?” Aziraphale asks.

“I haven’t cut it for fifteen years.” Crowley replies, “I like it long. Gives me something else to do up here, to pass the time. I’m sort of stuck. Perk of being a prisoner.”

Aziraphale stiffens and pulls away, brows furrowed, “A p-prisoner…?” he steps back.

“I didn’t kill anyone if that’s what you think. I was imprisoned for some petty crime fifteen years ago. I stole rampion from someone’s garden.”

“You were imprisoned in a tower for 15 years for stealing field lettuce!?” Aziraphale exclaims.

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“But that’s…ridiculous.”

Crowley shrugs, “I honestly think my sister just wanted an excuse to get rid of me. So, the moment she had a reason, she took it.” he says.

“Governor Beelzebub is your sister!?” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah.” Crowley answers, “So until she’s out of office, I’m stuck in this tower. That is if she decides to tell the new governor I exist. Which I doubt she will. Aside from you and her administration, no one else knows I’m here. And even if she did, I don’t think the new governor would let me out anyway. I haven’t left in 15 years and I’d really love to get away and explore the outside world again.” he says, gazing at Aziraphale. And then, he gets an idea, “Perhaps you could spring me out of this tower—just so I can explore for one or two days.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t break the law like that. Conspiring with a prisoner…n-no matter how ridiculous the charges are.”

Crowley’s face falls, “Right. Of course. Just a thought.”

“But…there are…other ways to see the world, you know. There’s books.” Aziraphale says, “I own a book shop back in town, perhaps I can let you borrow some of my collection.”

“Thanks, but I don’t read books. Well, except for this one book, which is about plants. And a cookbook so I don’t burn down my kitchen.” Crowley replies.

“Have you ever tried reading a book? As in, one that tells a story? Or a history? Or perhaps a travel book with pictures?”

“Nope. Never.”

“You could explore the world that way. Granted, it is nowhere near the same thing, but it’s sort of close…that’s all the help I’d be willing to offer you.”

“What makes you want to help me, anyway, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks.

“I like helping people and sharing my love of books with them.” Aziraphale answers simply, “You also have a nice singing voice, so there’s that as well.”

“Oh…well, alright…I suppose I’ll give your “books” a try.” Crowley says.

“Excellent! I’ll bring some for you same time next week.” Aziraphale declares, “But for now, I best get going.”

“Would you like some tea before you go? I mean, you helped me with my hair and you’re bringing me books so it’s the least I can do.” Crowley asks, trying to stall a bit, as this is the first pleasant person he’s talked to in fifteen years. 

Aziraphale stops at the window and looks back at the other. There’s hope glinting in his strange and lovely eyes.

“I suppose a quick cuppa wouldn’t hurt.” he says. Crowley smiles at him.


	4. Discoveries and Unpleasant Company

~4~

“Can I ask what you’re doing, Mr. Fell?” Anathema voice fills the quiet air. The shop wasn’t busy, and she was taking a break, currently observing Aziraphale sorting carefully through books.

“Oh, a…friend…of mine wants to take up reading. So, I’m picking out some books I think he’d like.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” she says, “I really enjoyed the one you lent me by the way.”

Aziraphale smiles at her, “I’m glad you did.” Suddenly, the bell above the door jingles and Aziraphale’s least favorite person walks in. There he is, tall, bulky, dark-haired and violet-eyed, accompanied, as usual, by his orange-coated right-hand man.

“Afternoon Aziraphale.” he says, smiling a smile so fake it would make anyone gag or cringe, “How is it going?”

“Afternoon Gabriel, Sandolphon.” Aziraphale replies, grinning nervously, “What can I help you with?”

“I was wondering if you had any books on the Sundrop Flower.” he says.

Aziraphale shakes his head, “All my copies of any books with information on it are sold out.” he says, “Except…” he glances towards Crowley’s pile where his remaining is. “Well, except for that one. Although—”

“I’ll take that off your hands.” Gabriel interrupts. 

“I’m sorry. It’s for a friend.” Aziraphale replies.

“That whole pile?” Gabriel asks, “Surely your friend wouldn’t miss one lonely little book.”

“Well I…”

“I’ll pay double for it. Come on, Aziraphale. Help an old friend out, won’t you?” Gabriel presses.

“I just…” Truth be told, that was Aziraphale’s personal copy of _Legends of the Stunning Sundrop Flower_ _and Where to Find It,_ and he didn’t fancy selling it to Gabriel, who had never expressed an interest in books until now. Especially when had carefully picked that one for Crowley after seeing all the lovely plants in his tower.

“You pride yourself in sharing books with everyone,” Gabriel asks, “That it doesn’t matter the person, anyone can pick up reading at any time. So why not me? I don’t think your customers would be too happy if they found out you refused someone a book.”

“Alright Gabriel, fine.” Aziraphale gives in, “I’ll sell it to you.”

Gabriel’s false smile returns. He nods to Sandalphon, who sets the money on the counter. Double, as promised. Aziraphale begrudgingly hands over the book.

“Thanks. Have a nice day.” Gabriel sneers, carelessly thrusting the book into Sandalphon’s hand as they leave the shop.

“Isn’t he “charming”.” Anathema comments sarcastically.

“Entirely…” Aziraphale replies dryly.

-xXx-

On their walk out of the shop, Gabriel says to Sandalphon, “Have Michael and Uriel read this whole thing and then mark up a map. We’re going treasure hunting. That Healing Flower is ours. I need it to keep my youthful beauty.”

“Of course, we’ll get going on that immediately.” Sandalphon replies.

“What’s got you in such a good mood, boy?” Hastur scoffs, when he notices that Crowley is humming all the while he prepares him dinner.

“Don’t know. Just one of those days, I suppose.” Crowley answers vaguely. It is then that Hastur, who was known for strange behaviors, takes a long whiff of the air. Whether he’s actually taking in the scent of the flowers or trying to smell the last vapors from the one role of tobacco he’d put in his pipe, Crowley wasn’t sure.

“Something smells off in here.” he says.

“Yeah, it’s your tobacco, overpowering my flowers.” Crowley scoffs.

“No, it isn’t. It’s like a new tea or something, mixed with parchment and glue and…cocoa.”

_How the hell can Hastur smell the bookkeeper!? He was here hours ago!_

“What are you up to, Crowley?” Hastur glares at him through the cloudy air, “Conspiring? Plotting to escape? I could have your sister post guards around the tower you know.”

“That really isn’t necessary. I think inhaling nicotine all the time is damaging your senses.” Crowley replies.

“You watch your tongue, boy!” he hisses, “Mark my words I could make your life worse.” And that’s the last thing he says, before he’s gone for the night and Crowley is left alone again. He cleans off the table, and draws the curtains over the window, and then, he goes upstairs. Upstairs, the Sundrop glows dimly in the dark room, gently illuminating the small quarters. He turns on his side so he can gaze at the warm light. And, as per his usual nighttime ritual, he sings to it, closing his eyes and falling into the soft melody.

_Flower, gleam and glow,_

_Let your power shine,_

_Make the clock reverse,_

_Bring back what once was mine…_

It is then he realizes that the glow is much, much more vibrant than before. And his hair feels strangely warm. He continues.

_Heal what has been hurt,_

_Change the fate’s design._

_Save what has been lost—_

It’s too bright, and his hair has grown even warmer. It’s lighting up his whole room. He opens his eyes. He’s stopped singing so the glow has gone dimmer, but he realizes that not only is it coming from the flower, but it’s coming from his hair.

_“What the heaven…!?”_

_Bring back what once was mine,_

_What once was mine…_

And as the song fades the glow from his hair does too.

“What!? What!? What!? What!? How- what the—the flower—my hair glows!? MY HAIR GLOWS! I have magic hair that glows when I sing…”

And that was his last thought of the night. But what he doesn’t realize is that Hastur, in his attempt to find out part of what Crowley is up to, has been listening and watching from his spot on the tower’s hidden staircase, and has just discovered that he is in possession of the Healing Flower, and, not only that, but he knows where it is. 


	5. Oh, the Places You'll Go

~5~

It is a lovely, warm day when Aziraphale returns to Crowley’s tower. He’s carrying a rather heavy basket, loaded with books. He breaks the clearing and steps towards the tower.

“Crowley!” he calls, “Crowley, let down your hair, please!”

“Watch out, Aziraphale!” comes the reply from inside the tower. And before he can move, the long red locks are plummeting towards the ground and crashing into him. He’s knocked face first into the grass, with the weight of Crowley’s hair holding him down.

“For Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale splutters, pulling himself into a standing position.

“Ooo, that’s gotta hurt…” Crowley says. He leans out the window and calls down, “Sorry! I warned you…”

“Maybe look where you throw next time?” Aziraphale replies. He gathers his basket of books, and then makes a loop with Crowley’s hair. He holds on tightly as Crowley slowly pulls him up into the tower. Once he’s up, he offers him a slender hand to help him into the tower.

“Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale smiles softly at him, accepting the gesture and carefully stepping down onto the floor. When he steps in, the scent of flowers mixed with the lovely scent of apple pie fills his senses with sweet aromas.

“It smells heavenly in here.” he says.

“Thanks. I made apple pie for us.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Aziraphale says, “Where should I put these?” he asks, indicating the books.

“You can just set them on the table,” Crowley says, “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d love some,” Aziraphale replies. And so, Crowley crosses over to the kitchen part of the tower and fills the tea kettle, which he heats up over the stove, which has already been lit up. As the kettle is heating up, Crowley slices the pie and brings two slices over to the table.

“I don’t have ice cream to go with it, unfortunately, or any other sweet toppings like that. I just ran out.”

“That’s alright. It’ll taste delicious just the same I’m sure.” Aziraphale replies. He sets the napkin in his lap and picks up the fork and knife. He cuts a piece from the slice and takes a bite. The crust is perfectly crumbly and the cinnamon sugar apples are warm and sweet on his taste buds.

“This is scrumptious.” Aziraphale tells Crowley.

“Thanks. It’s just from a cookbook though, nothing special.” he replies modestly, “I was just following the recipe, with a few of my own personal touches and alterations.” He takes a small bite off his own fork.

They spend a few moments sitting and chatting.

“So, Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, “If you’re stuck up this tower, how do you get plants and groceries? Does someone bring them to you?”

“There’s this weasely man named Hastur that comes by every couple of days.” Crowley says, “He’s always smoking a pipe and smelling up my tower. Before you came along, he was the only person I interacted with.” 

“Oh. I see.” Aziraphale replies.

“Truth be told, I’d rather be lonely than interact with him any day of the week.” Crowley comments dryly, “It’s nice to talk to someone else for a change. You’re much more pleasant company than he is.”

“I should hope so.” Aziraphale replies.

The screaming kettle cuts off their conversation. “One second, Aziraphale.” Crowley gets up and crosses over to the stove. He turns it off and removes the kettle. He pours the water into the tea pot and brings it to the table along with a teacup and saucer. He sets it in front of Aziraphale.

“Sugar cubes are there in that bowl if you want them.” he says, before sitting back down in his own chair across from him.

“You’re not having any?” Aziraphale asks.

“Nah. I’m not really a tea person.” Crowley replies. They sit for a bit longer at the table before Aziraphale turns to his basket.

“Right. Umm, the books. I brought you at least a dozen, probably more.” Aziraphale says, “I figured having a lot of them might keep you entertained.” He begins to take books from the basket to show them off.

“Wouldn’t be able to go through them easier if we put them on the ground?” Crowley asks, “Don’t worry. I’ve just swept and mopped; the floor is perfectly clean.”

“Right. I suppose that makes sense.” So, they move to the floor and Aziraphale begins to take out the books. Among them are three of Shakespeare’s plays: _Merchant of Venice, Twelfth Night, Two Gentleman of Verona,_ and many adventure novels including _Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Odyssey, Gulliver’s Travels, the Swiss Family Robinson_ , _Robinson Crusoe,_ a book of fairytales, and several others focused on adventure, exploration, and travel, alongside a couple of books he had grabbed about plants and cooking.

“I tried to find books that went to different places in the world.” Aziraphale explains, “These adventure novels I think you might find the most entertaining, these here are travel journals—there’s pictures and accounts that describe different things the explorers see and discover. This one is about a man who travels to all the remote places of the world, this one is about a family who gets trapped on an island,” the more he talks, the more excited he gets. His voice is much more litted, and he talks fast and animatedly as he shows off and gives short summaries of each of the books he takes out.

“This one is about a man who is imprisoned, escapes from jail, acquires a fortune, and goes to get his revenge on the people who imprisoned. It takes you to France, Italy, and the lonely islands of the Mediterranean…this one is a swashbuckler story about a young man who goes to Paris to join the King’s Court…this one is about two best friends in Verona and Milan…This one is a comedy that follows a brother and sister who are separated during a shipwreck. The young lady has to assume the identity of a man to earn a living…this one is an epic poem about a king trying to find his way back home with many trials and tribulations along the way…”

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to manage to get through all of these.” Crowley says.

“You can keep them for as long as you need.” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley picks up a couple of books to examine them. Unless there were illustrations, all he saw were tiny words on the pages, and he wasn’t even sure if Shakespeare’s plays were in English. The look of the text alone made him not even want to open a book and get started. But he wasn’t about to say that out loud, though, especially considering how excited Aziraphale was about them.

“I don’t even know where to begin.” Crowley says. They’re sitting side by side on the floor, with the books scattered around them, and Crowley’s hair pooling and snaking around the mess.

“Well, where would you like to go first?” Aziraphale asks.

“France, I suppose. You seem to be very enthusiastic about it.” Crowley answers. And so, Aziraphale picks up _The Count of Monte Cristo._ He opens the book.

“Would you like me to read it to you?” he asks, almost shyly. 

“Sure, if you’d like.”

And he does. Over the span of the next few weeks, they would spend weekends traveling to different places together.

Eventually, it reached a point where Crowley would finish books on his own just so they could move on to a new location. He did a lot of reading on his own now, but he never enjoyed it as much as he did when he and Aziraphale read to each other.

-xXx-

They went to Paris one week, and the next two they were in Italy, traveling the streets of Verona and taking gondolas down the rivers in Venice. They followed Gulliver to the remote places of the world, and Crusoe and the Swiss family Robinson to mysterious tropical islands. They went with explorers to the Americas and Odysseus took them across the Mediterranean, where they met Calypso and Cyclops. They rejoiced with him when he got back to Penelope and Ithaca. They followed Viola on her adventure on Illyria. Others took them through the rolling hills of Scotland and Ireland, where they encountered Gaelic figures. They went on adventures on the high seas with pirates and swashbucklers, and Vikings and Dragons of the Nordics. They followed Hamlet and Macbeth to Denmark, and they explored the streets of London with Pip and Sherlock Holmes.

The more they read the more Crowley ached to leave his tower.

Aziraphale shows up right on schedule, just as he has for the entire spring.

“Crowley, Crowley, let down your hair!” he calls. Crowley sets the book spine up on the seat of the chair and walks over to the window. He peers down, beaming.

“I’ve brought our snack like you requested,” Aziraphale says.

“Just a second, Aziraphale. You stay there, I’m coming down to you.”

“You are? But you can’t leave the tower, you’re still…”

“I’m not going beyond the clearing. I just want to touch the grass and the water. I haven’t been out of this tower for 15 years.”

“But how will you get down?” Aziraphale asks.

“Like this.” he double checks that the strand he’d braided and tied around the stair bannister is secure. Then, he loops his hair around the hook above the window and slides down the locks effortlessly, and steps onto the grass. It feels soft and wonderful between his toes. And he can’t help himself, so he laughs and sinks to his knees. He runs his hands across the lush green grass, before rolling onto his back and gazing up at the blue sky and fluffy clouds. He sighs contently when he feels the warm breeze on his face. He turns so he’s on his stomach. He watches some fluffy honeybees on a patch of yellow wildflowers and dandelions. 

Conveniently, another gentle gust of wind blows the seeds of a dandelion into the air. He pulls himself into a standing position and follows the path of the dandelion seeds across the grass. He feels a splash, mist his legs and cool water on his feet. He looks down to see he’s stepped into the clear, glassy water of the creek that runs through the whole forest and the clearing. He bends down and splashes the water into the air. It gently mists his face. Joy and summer warmth touch his face and course through his veins. For a moment, he forgets Aziraphale is there and spins and frolics about in circles across the grass, laughing and singing.

_“Just smell the grass, the trees! Like I remember them!_

_Just feel that summer breeze, I think it’s calling me!_

Aziraphale stands and observes him aside, with a book in his arms. He smiles and shakes his head with amusement.

_It’s been fifteen years, but I’m fine’ly free!_

_I could go running,_

_And racing,_

_And dancing,_

_And chasing…_

“Crowley—”

_“And leaping,_

_And bounding,_

_Hair flying,_

_Heart pounding!”_

“Crowley—” 

_“And splashing,_

_And reeling_

_And finally feeling!_

_That’s when my LIFE BE—OW! FUCK!”_

He’s jerked violently backward and he staggers, landing on his ass in the grass. He stops short and glances behind and above him. And that’s when he remembers his hair is still tied up inside the tower. He sighs, and grimaces at the pounding headache he has now.

“I was trying to warn you so that wouldn’t happen…” Aziraphale sighs, walking over to him, “Are you alright?”

“I have a headache, but it’ll pass.” he replies.

“So, where are we going today?” Aziraphale asks.

“Why don’t you pick this time?” Crowley suggests.”

“Well, alright. I don’t really have any new places to go, but there’s always Paris again.” Aziraphale says, taking the _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ out of his basket. It is only then that he realizes, Crowley seems a bit down.

“What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks him.

“It’s just that, the more we read, the more I want to leave my tower.” He takes a map out of his apron pocket, unrolls it and sets it on the grass. There are circles in paint all over it. “You see, I’ve marked all the places I want to go. I’ve been thinking of leaving my tower and running off to Venice or someplace.”

“You mean…escape? But Crowley, if you’re caught…”

“’If”. That’s the key word there. I’m going to do it. I have to. I can’t stand living in this tower anymore. The books…they were great, for a bit…but now I have to see the world for myself.” he says, “Don’t you want to see the places in the books too?”

“Of course, I’d like to.”

“Then why don’t you come with me? We can go off and explore together.” He studies Aziraphale, golden eyes hopeful.

For a moment, Aziraphale considers this, before he frowns, “I’m sorry Crowley, I can’t do that.” he replies, “The townspeople love my book shop and I love to share my books with them. If I left, they wouldn’t have it anymore…and I’m happy in my book shop in this quaint little corner of the world.”

“Right…”

“But I won’t stop you. Fifteen years is a long time to be imprisoned in tower for something as small as lettuce theft. I can’t go with you, but I will help you. I have plenty of savings, I can spare some of them for a friend.”

Crowley feels his stomach turn with guilt, “Oh no, I couldn’t ask you do that, you’ve already done more than enough by sharing your books with me.”

“Crowley, I insist. You won’t get far without money in your pocket, unfortunately. I can bring it for you this time next week.

“Are you…sure?”

“Completely.” he replies. Crowley smiles sadly at him. Aziraphale returns the expression. Then, they spend the afternoon sitting together in the grass, talking.

Before he leaves, Crowley asks, “Could you try and visit a few extra times than usual? Once I leave I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment before he answers, “Yes. I’ll do my utmost.” 

“CROWLEY, CROWLEY, LET DOWN YOUR HAIR!” Hastur calls. Crowley closes his book and hides it underneath his pillow, before running downstairs and throwing his hair out the window. With the tell-tale smell of cigarette smoke, he enters the tower, which is dimly illuminated by candlelight. 

While Crowley prepares dinner, he gets lost in his own world, and pays no mind to the fact that he is subconsciously singing. He’s singing the song that makes his hair glow.

He laughs chillingly, “Your hair glows! The power of the Sundrop flower is in your hair! I knew you had one, but I never would have guessed—the whole time it’s been right under my nose! You must let me use it…” he takes a strand of it in his hands and starts to giggle creepily, “Oh, it’s lovely…if the governor knew, she might just let you back into the kingdom…” he begins to stroke and comb through it with his dirty fingers.

Crowley yanks it sharply away, “Keep your grubby hands off!” he exclaims. 

“If you give me a strand of it,” Hastur says, “I’ll let you go. I’ll just tell the Governor that you couldn’t bear to stay trapped any longer, so you threw yourself out the window. She’ll think your dead, so you’ll be freed. All you have to do is give me a strand of your hair.”

“One strand?” Crowley perks up.

“Just one.” Hastur says, “And then, you’ll be a free man.”

“Fine.” so Crowley picks up the scissors from the basket, takes an unnoticeable strand from behind his ear, and cuts it off. The hair immediately goes from a vibrant crimson color, to a dark brownish red. _Just like the stalks…_ he thinks.

“On second thought…” Crowley hides the cut strand behind his ear and shoves the piece he cut off into the teapot sitting by the sink, “I don’t really want to leave. No. I like it here.” he lies. And then he thinks, _if I let Hastur use my hair, I can make him brush it for me. That’ll save me the tedious work. I can handle that for a week…and I can protect the real Sundrop flower and give it to Aziraphale to thank him for everything…_ “Here’s the deal. I’ll let you use my hair if you wash your hands and come in morning to brush it, leaving me alone at night. And you’re not allowed to smoke inside my tower anymore. You have to go outside or sit at the window. Those are my conditions.”

Hastur agrees without hesitation. Crowley feels quite smug with himself. This way, he wouldn’t have to spend the whole day dreading Hastur’s arrival, nor would have to reclean the tower after he left again. Not only that, but he wouldn’t have to worry about being caught at night when it came time to escape. 


	6. A Thousand Times Goodnight

~6~

The next morning, Hastur shows up just like he said he would. He climbs up Crowley’s hair, and when he gets up to the tower, he discovers that Crowley has set out an assortment of combs and hairbrushes neatly upon the table.

“Pick whichever one you’d like.” Crowley tells him. Hastur spends several painstaking minutes trying to decide, and Crowley, annoyed, very much wants to push him out the window. At long last he picks a brush and comb and then walks over to the armchair in front of the fireplace. Crowley pulls up a stool in front of him and sits down in it. He sings the healing incantation.

When he finishes, he sees that Hastur is looking slightly less repulsive than usual.

“You have to brush all 70 feet of hair.” Crowley says, “Even though I’m done singing.” he smirks triumphantly. Hastur glares but does it anyway.

-xXx-

And thus, this was how it went for the week. Hastur shows up every morning for a couple of hours, to brush Crowley’s hair, and he’s gone by 9 or 10 AM. And Crowley gets to be Hastur free for the rest of the day.

What makes it all the better, is that Aziraphale shows up on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says on Monday, “I was able to rearrange Hastur’s visits, so now you can stay for dinner if you’d like.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Aziraphale tells him, “I can even help you prepare it too."

“I’d love if you would.” And so, they do. Crowley slices up vegetables, and Aziraphale peels potatoes for their stew. After dinner, then, they climb down the tower walls and stargaze, lying side by side in the grass. Crowley talks about the places he most looking forward to.

-xXx-

On Wednesday, Aziraphale stays for dinner again. They have leftovers and bake chocolate chip biscuits instead. Aziraphale shares stories about the townspeople.

“Speaking of stories.” he says, “I want to give you a little something for your travels.” he pulls a book out of his basket and slides it across the table. Crowley opens the book and discovers that it is Aziraphale’s own writing. There’s a few pages that are full, and a few that have been torn out.

“It’s a manuscript I started but I know I’ll never be able to finish. There’s still plenty of blank pages that need to be filled. I want you to have it. Perhaps you can write down your experiences- keep your own diary, travel journal of sorts…and show it to me whenever we meet again.” Aziraphale tells him, “That way you can remember them clearly years from now.”

Crowley takes it with a sudden heaviness returning to his heart. He’s been so excited lately, and he’s been so wrapped up in every second he’s shared with Aziraphale…that he’s almost forgotten at the end of the week he’ll be leaving without him. But the prospect of meeting again at least gave him some comfort.

“Thanks. I’ll try my best to write things down.” he says. They share a smile. Aziraphale looks at the clock.

“Oh dear, look at the time. I best be going. I have to open my bookshop bright and early tomorrow as usual.” 

“Right, of course.” Crowley says solemnly. He swings his hair onto the hook and gently lowers Aziraphale to the grass. With his basket on his arm he heads for the mouth of the tunnel that will take him out of the clearing and back into the forest.

But before he leaves, he turns and glances over his shoulders. He smiles. The stars and moon cast a gentle, perfect glow upon his warm face, and reflect in his deep, wide pools.

“A thousand times goodnight!” he calls.

“A thousand times good night,” Crowley answers, counting Aziraphale’s steps as he vanishes into the tunnel, swallowed whole by the darkness.

He sighs. His shoulders feel heavy again, and in the back of his mind, he wonders if he truly wants to leave. He begins to doubt the decision, torn between freedom from his cold, tower prison, and being able to see Aziraphale every week. 

-xXx-

He shows up for dinner again on Friday with a bottle of wine. They share a drink, listening to the gentle record spinning on the player.

“How are you feeling about this whole escapade?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley locks gazes with him and studies his deep eyes.

“I don’t know. I’m glad I’ll finally be free but…I’m going to miss you.” he says, blushing, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? We can go anywhere you’d like.” Aziraphale reaches over the table and takes Crowley’s hand in his own. Crowley is initially surprised by the gesture, but the warmth and gentle pressure from the squeeze fills him with a sensation he’s never felt before.

“Crowley,” he says, “We’ve talked about this. I can’t.” there’s a certain solemnness in his voice that makes Crowley feel even more melancholy.

“But…why?” Crowley asks.

“I can’t abandon the townspeople. Or my livelihood. And my leaving would put Mrs. Device-Puslifer and her mother out of a job. It would be selfish of me.”

Crowley can’t argue with that, nor does he want to pressure Aziraphale further. He feels the grip around his hand tighten.

“But this won’t be goodbye.” Aziraphale says, “Think of it more like “until we meet again”.” he smiles.

“Until we meet again.” Crowley echoes, “I…like that better…”

There’s a short quiet, and the gentle music from the gramophone fills their ears.

“Oh! I love this song.” Aziraphale tries to jump to a more light-hearted subject. Crowley gets an idea. He pushes his chair back and stands up. He turns up the music and offers Aziraphale a hand.

“Would you like to…dance?”

He blots his face with his napkin, blushes lightly and says, “I wouldn’t mind.” And so, they do. Hand in hand, hand to shoulder and waist, they waltz slowly around the floor.

Aziraphale steps too far forward and steps on Crowley’s bare feet. “Oh! Dear me! I’m sorry.”

“At least you took your shoes off,” Crowley replies. He smiles reassuringly, and they continue to dance around the floor.

When he goes back in for a spin, Crowley trips over his own hair and ends up stumbling into the warmth of Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oops…” Crowley blushes and gazes up into Aziraphale’s doe eyes. Aziraphale smiles down at him softly and then helps him steady himself. They resume their starting position and continue to move about the floor. They’re not graceful to scarcely any degree, and they do more stumbling over each other’s feet and tripping over Crowley’s seventy feet of hair than any sort of dancing. It is by no means good dancing, but it’s fun, nonetheless. And for an hour, they forget that they’ll have to say goodbye soon.

They remember when the last song they dance to ends. Again, Aziraphale is gently lowered onto the grass, and he turns to leave.

“I’ll be back late tomorrow afternoon,” he says, “To see you one final time, and to say goodbye. Until then, a thousand times goodnight!”

Crowley waves out the window, “A thousand times goodnight…” he replies. His hands feel cold from Aziraphale letting go of them.

-xXx-

In the late afternoon the next day, Aziraphale is on his way to the tower one final time. His heart is heavy as he’s walking through the quiet forest, and today, it somehow feels less welcoming. Instead of being peaceful, it’s desolate, empty, and cold.

Even the forest creatures seem to have closed themselves off in their dens and their nests. He feels a gust of chilly wind and looks up at the trees. He shudders and pulls his coat taut around him. The leaves are beginning to change color, and the air is cooling down.

As he’s walking, he gets a strange feeling that someone is following him. He hears a rustle in the bushes. He stops and snaps his gaze around. Nothing. He continues on. The wind picks up.

A twig snaps somewhere near him. He stiffens and glances around once more. Still nothing. With his stomach twisting in knots and unease curling in his chest, he picks up his pace. He can see the plant-covered entrance to the tunnel. He breaks into a jog.

_Almost there! Almost there!_ His throat feels dry, and he finds his knotted stomach is making him feel slightly sick. The weight of the basket pulls him down. But still, he presses on, pulse echoing in his ears. 

He’s can practically touch the vine tendrils, when rough hands grab onto him, jerking him backward. A hand is thrown over his mouth so he can’t call for help.

“Well, well, well,” says a smooth, and all too familiar voice. The shadow of a tall figure appears in front of him. He tries to struggle free, but the two others have him well restrained. The figure is revealed to him. His stomach does a violent flip and his heart drops to his stomach. His pulse increases.

The newcomer has and updo of brown hair and holds a book in her right hand. It’s Michael, one of Gabriel’s ‘friends’. He again struggles, but his arms are twisted even more painfully behind his back.

“Struggling is pointless,” says Uriel’s icy voice in his ear.

“You have something of ours,” says Michael.

“What do you…mean?”

He feels a sharp kick to his leg. He winces.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” Michael replies, “You know where the Sundrop flower is.”

“I have never seen a real Sundrop in my life!” he exclaims, “There was only ever one in existence and it has never been found! Most people think it’s just a story!”

“You know where it is and you’ve been using it.” Uriel hisses, “Why else would you slip off into the forest every day and come back looking so happy, hmm? Why else would Gabriel have to persuade you to give him the book about it?”

“That has nothing to do with the Sundrop flower! You’re being ridiculous.” Aziraphale replies, “It isn’t my fault that you can’t find it!”

“Fine. You won’t tell us, then?”

“Because I don’t know!”

“’E’s lying!” hisses Uriel.

“Gabriel said to get the information out of him no matter what the cost~” Sandalphon sing-songs chillingly.

Michael cracks her knuckles, “Fine.” she brandishes the book and raises it like a club, “We’ll force the issue.” She comes forward and hits him on the side of the head, knocking the wind out of him .

He crumbles to the ground, and he has no room to protest before he’s overtaken by all three of them and they’re on him, with fists and kicks and fingernails. And he lies there helplessly, curled up into a fetal position, silent tears leaking down his cheeks and too shocked and in pain to fight back.

-xXx-

He thinks it’ll never end, when suddenly, he here’s the mighty clang of a frying pan and all the extra weight is off him. Sandalphon falls first, and then Uriel, and finally, Michael. Through his gaze blurred with blood and tears, he sees a figure in a dark cloak and dark glasses. He falls to his knees beside Aziraphale and takes his hands. His gaze blurs in and out, and he hears the distant voice.

“Aziraphale? Aziraphale! You’re alright, I’m here. I’m here. Just stay still. You’ll be fixed up in just a second, hold on!”

_Crowley?_

Before he can protest, Crowley is wrapping his beaten body in his hair. He presses one of the strands into the gash in his head. He holds it there, applying pressure to it. He takes a breath and begins to sing:

_Flower, gleam and glow,_

_Let your power shine._

_Make the clock reverse,_

_Bring back what once was mine…_

Through his blurry gaze, Aziraphale watches as a red glow begins to spread through Crowley’s hair. He feels a gentle warmth when the glowing hair touches his bruised and battered body.

_Heal what has been hurt,_

_Change the fate’s design…_

The glow grows even stronger, the warmth grows warmer, and Aziraphale feels his strength returning.

_Save what has been lost,_

_Bring back what once was mine…_

The stinging in his temple is nearly gone away.

_What once was mine…_

When the singing stops the glow and warmth gently fades away.

“You alright?” Crowley asks worriedly, “Here, let me help you sit up.” He feels a warm grip around his back and a hand tightens around his own. Aziraphale is too shocked and flabbergasted to protest. His eyes reflect in the lenses of the dark glasses.

“YOUR HAIR GLOWS!? What the h—you, the sundr—this WHOLE TIME!?”

“Shh, sh, sh, shhh.” Crowley tries to calm him.

“How long has it been doing that!?”

“Yes, it does. I’ll explain later, but hurry, you’ve gotta get up and get out of here before they come around. Can you stand?”

“I think so, but…” Crowley helps him off the ground and hurries him along.

“I promise I’ll explain, but after I get you home. Which way is your book shop?”

“I’ll…give you directions.” They gather up Crowley’s hair, carrying all seventy feet of it together. Once they are out of earshot of Gabriel’s gang, Crowley answers all Aziraphale’s questions.


	7. The Sundrop Festival

~7~

“I used to have a sundrop flower. In fact, I’ve just gotten rid of it recently. Since I was going to be leaving the tower, I didn’t want to leave it where it could get in the wrong hands. I knew I wouldn’t be able to travel around with it, either, so I cut the last bloom and made it into tea, which I drank. Now, all the power from the flower has been transferred to my hair. You see, the thing about the flower is that it’ll grow back if you sing the Healing Incantation to it. But when you cut the stalks, they wither and won’t ever grow back. And I learned recently, it’s the same for my hair…” he pulls the darker piece from behind his ear and shows it to Aziraphale. “See what I mean? You cut it, and it loses its power. I personally don’t care much for the abilities, and I’ll cut it at some point, once I’ve settled somewhere. But for now, it’s a useful thing to have.”

“That’s quite a gift, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, “You really ought to get out of here sooner rather than later, then. Those people that you knocked unconscious in the forest—they’re looking for the Sundrop. There are a few people in this town that would want it for themselves and wouldn’t stop at anything to hurt you to get it. So, you must get away. Tonight, if you can.”

“Right…”

“Mr. Fell!” calls a voice, “Mr. Fell!” A young woman with glasses and flowing dark hair runs up to meet them with a young man and an older woman behind her.

“Anathema?” Aziraphale says, “Are you alright?”

She bends over to catch her breath, “I saw Gabriel’s gang follow you into the forest so I closed the shop early and ran to grab Newton and my mother so we could go after you to help you out.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Anathema, but I’m alright. Thanks to my friend here.”

She looks up at Crowley with wide eyes, “Hi.” she puts out a hand, “I’m Anathema Device-Pulsifer, this is my husband, Newton, and my mother.”

Crowley shakes their hands, “Hello.” He says.

“My, that’s a lot of beautiful hair you have, mijo.” says Anathema’s mother.

“Thanks. I’m growing it out.” he replies.

“You two are just in time.” says Newton, “The festival is just about to start.”

“Festival?” Crowley looks at Aziraphale.

“The Sundrop festival. It’s sort of like our end-of-summer tradition. It’s said to bring good luck and good harvest. You mean you’ve never been?” Anathema asks.

Crowley shakes his head. Aziraphale laughs nervously, “He’s umm, not from around.”

“Right. I’m just visiting.” Crowley adds on.

“You picked a good time to visit.” says Newton Pulsifer.

“Mrs. Shadwell is making tea cakes, Mr. Fell.” says Anathema’s mother, “Hurry, we best get going, or we’ll be late.” They turn and head back towards the town. Crowley and Aziraphale exchange glances.

Crowley can’t help the excitement coursing through his veins. “I’ve gotta see this,” he says, “No one is going to recognize me with my glasses and hood, and it would be a hell of a way to start my travels. As long as we hide from town officials, it should be fine.”

Aziraphale draws in a deep breath, “Alright. As long as you’re sure.”

“Completely.” And then, he takes off, with Aziraphale still carrying his hair behind him. Crowley moves rather fast, making his way through the crowds, and Aziraphale constantly has to readjust his grip on the hair, because it keeps slipping from his arms.

“Cr-Crowley slow down—excuse me, sorry, pardon me…” At long last they arrive at the entrance of the square. It is beautifully decorated with lights and banners and full of stands in the circle. People laugh and chat merrily, and the stands are abuzz with conversation and negotiations. It’s like market days except there’s more excitement. Music plays as energetic background noise.

As Aziraphale struggles to keep up with Crowley, he sees the Them standing together nearby, eating ice cream. And near them, Pepper’s little sister and her friends are braiding hair.

Aziraphale walks up to them, half tugging Crowley along. “How would you little ladies like to help my friend here?”

“Oh yes please!” exclaims Pepper’s sister, “Thank you, thank you Mr. Fell!”

“Surely you can sit still for a moment, can’t you Crowley?”

Crowley scoffs, “I suppose. My hair is getting rather annoying.” So, he sits cross-legged on the cobbled ground while the group braids his hair. The Them watch nearby.

“I’ll pay you four if you help them.” he says. Evidently, that’s enough for Adam and his friends to agree. They make several thick plaits around his head, which they then put together into one, secured and tied at the bottom. It is still ridiculously long, so they twist part of it into a knot, until it reaches a point where it is no longer touching the ground. They also put flowers in it.

Crowley stands up and does a turn, “Well, Aziraphale? How did they do?”

Aziraphale is flooded with relief that he doesn’t have to carry the hair anymore. And, with it pulled back, he can actually see Crowley’s lovely angular features, cheekbones, and freckles clearly. He has a certain bright youthfulness about him like this. Aziraphale blushes. 

“It looks very lovely.” he replies. Crowley turns back to the kids.

“Thanks guys.” he tells them.

“Your welcome!” replies Pepper’s sister. Aziraphale pays them, like he promised, and then he and Crowley bid them goodbye and move on. Aziraphale’s stomach growls.

“Let’s grab a few snacks, shall we?” he suggests. 

“That sounds alright with me.” Crowley replies.

-xXx-

Of course, while Crowley and Aziraphale enjoy the festival, Hastur finds an empty tower. He digs his dirty nails into his palms and bites his finger with bristling anger. After screaming and cursing Crowley’s name, he grabs a knife from one of the drawers, puts on his hooded cloak, and goes into town.

-xXx-

Meanwhile, Crowley and Aziraphale are walking around the festival, stopping at stands to sample everything and look at all the souvenirs. A live band plays a lively tune.

Voices call people to different stands, and the streets are full of lovely smells.

“Mr. Fell! Come have some teacakes! They’re nice and fresh.”

Aziraphale meets Crowley’s gaze, “You ought to try these.” they walk over to her stand. The second they get there, the delicious aroma of the pink cake fills his nose.

“Hello Mr. Fell!” she says, “And who’s this handsome young man?”

“Crowley.” says the redhead, “Nice to meet you.”

“Hello~” 

“This is Mrs. Tracy-Shadwell.” Aziraphale introduces, “She makes the best tea and teacakes in town.”

Mrs. Tracy-Shadwell blushes, and then she calls over her shoulder, “Mr. Shadwell, I need two of the freshest teacakes tout de suite, pretty please!” she demands.

“Alright, woman, alright!” says the moody Scotsman. He takes two fresh ones from the batch with tongs and sets them on a plate. She hands them to the boys. They’re shaped like little hearts and covered in pink icing, “These are on the house today, Mr. Fell.” she says.

“Thank you.” he takes the dish in his hand and he and Crowley make their way to the crowded fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

“Get your lemonade punch over here!” calls a voice. Crowley’s attention is immediately drawn to the kiosk selling summer alcoholic drinks.

“Come on, Aziraphale, we need something to wash these teacakes down with.” And so, they return from the kiosk with two glasses of spiked lemonade with raspberries, apples, and oranges floating on the top.

They find an empty spot on the fountain and sit down. “Cheers~” Crowley says, raising his glass.

“Cheers.” Aziraphale replies. They clink glasses and take a drink at the same time. They sit side by side and enjoy their teacakes, watching the townsfolk moving about. They talk quietly, just enjoying one another’s company.

Scanning his gaze around, Aziraphale sees the florist trying to get rid of the last of her summer arrangements.

“Excuse me a moment, Crowley.” he says.

“Alright.”

Aziraphale gets up and goes over to the stand.

“’Ello Mr. Fell!” says the florist.

“Miss Daisy. Hello. I was wondering if you still have any seeds for white roses?”

“As a matter of fact, I think I might.” she turns her back and rummages for a moment, “Yes, right here! I thought I did.” She turns back and puts the packet of seeds in his hand, “Anything else?”

“One of your lovely little succulents.” he says, noticing the pint-sized, variety-shaped pots on display that were nearly gone. He selects the most oddly shaped pot, and then gives the young woman what he owes her, plus a tip.

“Thank you, Miss Daisy. Have a good evening.” And then he turns and heads back to the fountain. Crowley is waiting for him, striking up a conversation with a local, and sipping on his drink.

When he feels Aziraphale’s presence, he turns back to face him. “I, umm, got you something.” Aziraphale says. He takes the items he just bought from his basket. “These are for you. These are seed packets, and this is a succulent.” he says, setting them in Crowley’s hand, “Since you can’t bring your lovely plants with you on your travels, I thought you might like one small enough to take with you wherever you go. And when you settle down, you can plant these white roses.” Aziraphale sees light blush dust Crowley’s cheeks. He smiles up at him softly.

“Perhaps they’ll…” Aziraphale trails off.

“Hmm?” 

“Perhaps when you look at them, it’ll make you think of me.”

Crowley clasps the succulent and the seeds to his chest. He tucks the succulent and seeds carefully in his apron pocket. “I’m sure I will.” There’s a short silence between them.

“Do you want to get some ice cream?” Crowley asks.

“Why not.” Aziraphale replies. Crowley stands up and pulls Aziraphale to his feet. While they stand and wait for their ice cream, Aziraphale keeps a sharp eye out. And then he sees four officials from the Governor’s house. His stomach drops and turns.

“Crowley…” he says in a whisper yell, “Government officials.” Crowley doesn’t have to be told twice. Aziraphale grabs his arm and they duck out of sight until the four guards pass. Aziraphale exhales and they share a laugh.

They make their way back to where they were sitting on the fountain. As they’re sitting together, Aziraphale notices that some of Crowley’s hair as come loose and a couple of the flowers are slightly askew.

“Your hair got a bit messy up front.” Aziraphale says, “Here. Let me fix it?”

“Go for it.”

Aziraphale leans forwards and brushes and tucks the strands away with his fingers. Then, he adjusts the flowers. “There. Much better~” He leans back. Crowley leans forward and adjusts the ascot tucked into Aziraphale’s waistcoat. They turn back to watching the townspeople goofing off. As they’re sitting there, Aziraphale feels Crowley’s clammy hand slide over his. He stares at it for a moment but makes no move to let go. The sun is beginning to set.

The music starts to pick up. Then the warmth of Crowley’s hand is gone, so is the presence of him at Aziraphale’s side. The sound of clapping fills his ears. And when he turns to look, there’s Crowley in the middle of the cobbled ground, dancing about. He’s light on his feet and as he moves and claps to the music, his thick braid swings about his ankles. He’s smiling broadly.

Aziraphale observes him, heart swelling with happiness and butterflies flitting in his stomach, with the warmth of the sun and his joy embracing him like a blanket. The light of the slowly setting sun catches in his hair and engulfs him in a gentle glow.

Crowley moves toward the assembled crowd and pulls a young boy out with him for a dance. Once he’s comfortable, Crowley loops his arms around Mr. and Mrs. Shadwell, pulling out to the floor. He does the same to Anathema, and then Newton, and pretty soon, the whole kingdom is taking part in it. 

The upbeat waltz fills the air with a certain joy. The next thing Aziraphale knows, he is twirling and whirling about the dance floor, switching between partners.

Hands clap and heels tap to the beat as the accelerando and crescendos of the music weave its way into his senses and engulf the square. His dizziness from so much spinning was causing everything to become a haze of colors and sound. Laughter is distant in his ears, replaced by the warmth of the music as he focuses on keeping the rhythm of the beat. 

He finds himself reaching for Crowley, trying to dance his way too him, but each time he is swept away by a different dancer. He laughs with his partners, even when they clumsily stumble over each other’s feet. Through the spinning world around him, he sees Crowley laughing too. It got to a point where Aziraphale decided he never wanted it to end.

But then it does. And the world goes silent. The tapping stops, and the music stops. The laughter stops. And he’s chest to chest and face to face with Crowley. His heart pounds fast in his ears, as he catches his breath. They never tear their gazes from each other.

“Thank you everyone for another fantastic end of summer festival!” says a gruff female voice. All gazes turn to the steps of the town hall. In her dark suit and red sash, Governor Beelzebub stands and addresses everyone. Crowley’s warmth leaves Aziraphale’s side again as he slinks himself further into the crowd. “As our annual custom, of course, we will send lanterns into the sky and join together for the singing of the Healing Incantation, led by Gabriel Archangel.” Unsteady cheering fills the air as he makes his way up to the steps.

“Thank you, thank you all!” he says, smiling falsely. The lights in the square go out, and the only source of it now is the paper lanterns that are currently being passed around to the crowd.

Aziraphale’s stomach ties into a knot. He turns abruptly and tries to go into the crowd after Crowley. But there’s too many people for him to do so. If they started to sing, his hair would glow and Gabriel’s ilk would find him.

“Now then. Without further ado, let us—”

“GOVERNOR! GOVERNOR! GOVERNOR!” screams a voice from behind the crowd. It is followed by, “Out of my way! Move! Move!” the people part like a sea and Hastur flies through the courtyard and up to the steps of the hall. He is huffing and puffing with erratic screaming tied in.

“HASTUR!” Beelzebub bellows, “What could be so urgent that you must stop our entire festival for!?”

He stops and catches his breath, and then runs up to murmur something into her ear. Unsettling, nervous chatter travels quietly through the square.

“QUIIIIIIIIEEEET!” Beelzebub thunders, “I have just been informed that we’ve had a prisoner escape.”

Aziraphale’s heart drops to his stomach. The unease increases, filling the air with a thick tension.

“Do not panic! The fugitive is not dangerous. You know who you are, thief! If you are among us and show yourself by the end of the song, we will negotiate the terms of your sentence and come to a compromising conclusion!”

“Sing!” Hastur declares, “Just sing,” he’s cut off with sadistic and chilling laughter, “Just sing and you’ll find him I swear it! He’s impossible to miss! Oh I’ll catch you NOW DAMNED CROWLEY, DO YOU HEAR ME!? YOU UNGRATEFUL, SELFISH BOY!” 

Aziraphale’s core twists and ties itself into massive knots and he feels sick.

“Ahem, pardon me,” Gabriel begins rudely, “Governor Beelzebub I’ve been practicing this song for years and I’d like to sing. I-if you don’t mind.” he offers another “polite” smile. 

“Very well, does everyone have their lanterns?”

Aziraphale tries to push through the crowd but there are too many people and he doesn’t want to be rude, so he’s forced to stand there, and to endure the separation from Crowley’s form a few people away.

He’s forced to stand there and watch hopelessly, as the music starts and the song fills the night. 


	8. The Hurt Incantation

~8~

The eerie choir of voices consumes the serene air. And it doesn’t take much for the glow of Crowley’s hair to shine like a beacon, betraying his location. And again, the befuddled townspeople part like the sea, revealing Crowley who is curled up, crouching on the ground and trying to hide the glow of his hair. But it is too vibrant and only just beginning to fade.

“SEE! I TOLD YOU! THERE HE IS! HE’S STOLEN THE POWER OF THE SUNDROP FLOWER, TOO! HE WANTS TO KEEP IT ALL HIMSELF!” Hastur shrieks. And immediately, all the tables are turned, and the townspeople fall into an outrage.

“All my years…” Gabriel says, slowly stepping down the stairs of the town hall. Aziraphale abandons his politeness and turns and rushes towards Crowley’s side. But he’s quickly restrained by Uriel, Michael, and Sandolphon.

“Let go!” Aziraphale exclaims, “Release me! CROWLEY! RUN!” He wriggles, but they twist his arms farther and tighter. He winces. A rough hand grabs onto his hair. Aziraphale and Crowley meet gazes and immediately Crowley scrambles up and takes off. 

“AFTER HIM!” someone calls. And Hastur’s nasally and chilling voice cuts like a knife. And he sings the part of the song that was and has always been forbidden to sing. 

_Wither and decay,_

_End this destiny…_

Crowley’s hair starts to glow a much brighter and harsher red than before. His face twists in pain and he feels iron hot knives cutting into his scalp. He grabs onto the sides of his head and continues to run.

_Break these earthly chains_

_And set the spirit free…_

He bites his lip and feels the sting of tears. The knives continue to slowly slice pieces of his scalp away. _Stop! STOP!_ The burning is spreading from his scalp, shooting down through his whole body. He trips on his bare feet and crumbles to the ground.

“WITHER AND DECAY

END THIS DESTINY!

BREAK THESE EARTHLY CHAINS!

SET THE SPIRIT FREE!”

_STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! NO! PLEASE! STOP!_ Crowley curls into a fetal position, still grasping his head and starts to scream, paralyzed by the pain. _Aziraphale! HELP ME!_ His mind pleads.

“STOP! YOU’RE HURTING HIM, STOP!” Aziraphale screams. The town falls silent and shocked. Unable to move or speak. The singing stops. Crowley pulls himself off the ground.

“Defending him means you conspire against the government!” Hastur says sharply.

“Then arrest me.” Aziraphale says, “And let him go free. He’s been imprisoned long enough for a crime as simple as rampion theft!”

“Aziraphale, NO!” Crowley pleads.

Another laugh cuts into the air, “Let him go? I think not!” Gabriel pushes through the crowd, “I’ve been searching for the Sundrop flower for years! I’m not going to let it get away from me!” 

“RUN CROWLEY!” Aziraphale pleads, “Go! Leave me! I’ll be alright, just go!” And so, hearing the desperation in his voice, Crowley staggers into a standing position, and stumbles forward, taking off toward the direction of the wood. And in that moment, there’s commotion and cries in the crowd and four horsemen break through it.

“CATCH THAT SUNDROP FLOWER THIEF!” Hastur screams, “He’s getting away! Bring him back here. I need him alive.” And thus, the four horsemen take off, flying after Crowley in a frenzy of thunderous hooves.

Gabriel exchanges glances with his comrades, “Well, don’t just stand there! After him! Take the shortcut!” Immediately, Uriel, Michael, and Sandolphon follow the four horsemen, and Gabriel follows behind him. And then Hastur does too. In a frenzy, Aziraphale runs back towards his book shop, hoping he can find some sort of weapon or something he can use to go after him. But he’s stopped by a group of people.

“Now just where do you think you’re going?” asks Mrs. Tracy Shadwell.

“I have to go find something! Crowley’s in danger, I must go after them! But I need to prepare first!”

“No time.” says Anathema. She thrusts a frying pan into Aziraphale’s hand.

“Oi, bookkeeper!” says a gruff voice. Aziraphale stiffens and turns to face Mr. Shadwell, who is walking a stately stallion behind him.

“Here.” he says, “Take this horse and go save that man. No debates.” he thrusts the reins into Aziraphale’s hand. And then, without a second thought, Aziraphale gets on the back of the horse, puts the frying pan under his arm, flicks the reins and arches forward, taking off into the forest before anyone can stop him.

-xXx-

The four Horsemen took a wrong turn and got lost in the forest. Gabriel and his gang lost sight of Crowley, but they managed to corner Hastur, who had, by some devilish coincidence and circumstance, managed to corner Crowley, because Hastur knew the quickest way through the forest. In a desperate plea to not have his arse beaten, Hastur had agreed to share Crowley’s powers with them. And because he was outnumbered 5 to 1, Crowley’s protests were overpowered.

They took him back to the tower. And once they had what they wanted from Hastur, they pushed him out the tower window. He landed in thorns that pricked out his eyes and cut up his flesh. He stumbled into the forest and bled to death. Then the scavengers came and ate the flesh off his bones.

-xXx-

Gabriel’s gang chained Crowley up and covered his mouth with a cloth so he couldn’t speak properly. They undid all the plaits from his hair, trampling the lovely flowers on the tower floor.


	9. Bring Back What Once was Mine

~9~

“We’ll see if your lover comes after you.” Uriel sneers.

“We’ll be ready for him when he does.” Michael adds.

“In the meantime, let’s see how well this hair works.” Gabriel decides. And all at once the four of them gather around Crowley, each one tugging different parts of his hair while he squirms and protests. But a sharp kick to the side forces him to give in. Michael sings the healing incantation, and they all sigh and bask in the youthful feeling that engulfs them, so caught up in their vanity, that they do not notice how they’re making Crowley suffer.

“CROWLEY!” calls a voice from outside, “Crowley, let down your hair!”

“He’s here.” Sandalphon says. Gabriel thrusts the knife into his grasp. The older, fatter man looks at the glinting blade and his smile fades.

“I don’t wanna get my hands dirty. You can take care of the dirty work for me.” Gabriel says. 

“Crowley! Crowley, let down your hair!” Aziraphale calls from below. 

Crowley’s muffled protests grow louder, and the chains rattle as he fights them.

“Shut up!” Uriel hisses, violently kicking him in the ribs again. 

“Michael. Let down the stupid hair or whatever.” Gabriel demands. And so, she does. The curly red locks fly out the window and fall down the tower. And within moments, Aziraphale appears, huffing and puffing and stepping through the window.

“Crowley! Thank Heaven’s, I thought I’d never see—” he cuts off midsentence. Gabriel steps into the middle of the room to face him, standing between him and Crowley.

“So nice of you to join us.” He sneers.

Crowley’s muffled cries shout, _Aziraphale! AZIRAPHALE! It’s a tra—_

And suddenly, before he can act, someone grabs Aziraphale from behind, and he feels a searing pain in his abdomen. His breath catches violently in his throat as Sandalphon squelches a knife through him. Crowley screams in agony. Aziraphale grasps the wound, hissing in pain as his body thumps to the ground. 

“Excellent work, Crowley, now look what you’ve done!’ Gabriel exclaims. Sandalphon drops the knife and steps over the body.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Michael adds, “This little secret will die with him. She and Uriel begin to pull Crowley towards the open trap, where a staircase will lead them down and out of the tower. He continues to tug and squirm protest.

“We. Are going. Where no one. Will ever. Find you.” Gabriel says menacingly, getting into his face with blazing violet eyes. Uriel and Michael continue to pull him towards the stairs.

“Stop. Fighting!” Uriel growls. And at this point, Crowley has freed his mouth from the cloth so he can speak again.

“BASTARDS! ALL OF YOU! I WILL NEVER! EVER! FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, I WILL FIGHT AND KEEP ON FIGHTING UNTIL IT KILLS ME! I WILL NEVER STOP TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM YOU! _EVER!_ But…if you let me save him. I will go with you. I won’t fight or protest or try to escape. You can use my hair all you want. F-forever. Just let me heal him…”

“No Crowley! Don’t do th—” Aziraphale’s weak plea is cut off with a cough, and a metallic taste fills his mouth.

“Fine.” Gabriel says. He nods briskly to his henchman. They undo Crowley’s chains, and then use them for Aziraphale.

“In case you get any ideas.” says Uriel coldly.

“Wait outside, you three, I’ll handle this.” Gabriel commands his henchman. They obey him without question. Crowley ignores him for the time being, and shakily crawls over to Aziraphale, who gazes up at him with dulling, teary doe eyes, still pleading with every fiber of strength he has left. Above Aziraphale, Crowley’s glasses are gone, and his gold eyes prick with tears.

“Crowley…” he says in a weak whisper, “Please don’t do this…”

“It’s alright, Angel,” Crowley murmurs, forcing a smile, “It’s gonna be just fine. I’m going to save you…” he gently pries Aziraphale’s bloody hands from his injury and pulls open the fabric, so he can get a better look at the injury. He places a strand of hair on top of it, “I’ll get out of this too…”

“Crowley…look at me…” a shaky hand caresses Crowley’s face, and he presses his own against it, leaning into the touch. He locks gazes with Aziraphale. The blonde’s eyes are wide and dulling fast, and blood trickles from his mouth. His hand starts to travel down to Crowley’s hair. And with the last of his strength, Aziraphale forces himself to sit up, grabs the knife, and slices the hair clean off. His hand falls, the knife clattering to the floor.

A ragged grasp strains from Crowley’s throat. The hair on his head darkens, and it is followed by all the rest.

“YOU IDIOT! NO! NO! LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” Gabriel is screaming, “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE! YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!”

Crowley’s eyes blaze, his lip curls, and his grits his teeth. Through burning tears, he rushes at Gabriel and grabs him by the throat, shoving him against the wall of the tower. Gabriel coughs and gasps for air, eyes wide and pleading.

“You. Had better. Take your henchmen. And get. Out.” Crowley growls. He knees him in the crotch, and then drags his bulky form towards the stairs, and shoves him down the steps. He tumbles down. His body takes Sandalphon by surprise, and he falls backward, into Uriel and Michael. They stumble down the rest of steps, and then fall face first into the thorn bushes. And then the ivy that had been growing up the tower wraps around them, and ties them up, blinded and bleeding. Crowley shoves the door closed and rushes to Aziraphale’s side again.

“Angel…” his voice is broken and strained, “Angel…”

Aziraphale is smiling softly up at him, but his eyes are growing dark and cloudy. He’s lost sensation in his body.

“Crowley…” he whispers, “I would have gone anywhere with you…” he draws in his last, shaky breath, and his gentle eyes roll up to stare blankly at the ceiling.

“Aziraphale? Aziraphale! No n-no no no! Aziraphale! You idiot STAY WITH ME! Don’t go! Don’t—y-you’ve gone…” he lets out a sobbing gasp. He grabs a hank of his jaggedly cut hair and presses it over the wound.

_“Flower, gleam and glow…_

_L-let your power shine…_

_Make the clock reverse,_

_bring back what once…_

_What once…_

_What once was…_

_…mine…”_

The last word is barely a whisper. He screws his eyes tightly together, and a painful, stinging tear leaks from them. Crowley sobs in the dark, biting his lip until he tastes a trickle of blood. With a shaking hand, he closes his eyes, and with trembling, dry lips, he presses a kiss to his temple. He lets the silent tears fall, cradling the other and keeping his forehead pressed to his.

And suddenly, he is aware of an unearthly, beautiful light filling the small, cramped room of the tower. He opens his blurry gaze, and he sees bright red-orange light seeping up from the wound. It spreads throughout the room, weaving into the lovely, glowing shape and outline of the sundrop flower itself. And then, like that, the glow is gone, and then slowly fades. Crowley blinks, wondering if he is dreaming. But then, the sound of gentle breath graces his ear. He turns back to look at Aziraphale. His gentle eyes slowly flutter open.

Tears stream down Crowley’s face and his heartbeat thumps in his ears, before it takes flight.

“Crowley?” That’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Crowley bites his lip.

“Angel…Angel…”

“Oh dear…your hair…I’m so sorry I had to—”

“Shhhhh. Never mind my hair.” Crowley smiles broadly, “I could care less about that right now…” and then he pulls him into a tight, tight embrace, laughing with relief, tears of joy streaming down his face. When they pull away, Crowley’s smiling face isn’t the only one stained with tears of joy. They go in for another tight embrace, and when they pull away, Crowley’s tears are still falling.

“I never want to go anywhere…” Crowley says, “Unless it’s with you.”

Aziraphale smiles and brushes a pesky, short strand of curly red hair behind Crowley’s ear. “You won’t have to.” He says softly. And then, he seals his word with a shy, gentle kiss and brightly blushing cheeks.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not near as pleased with the end result of this one, but hey. It's done now, and I'm moving on to other fairytales. Let me know what you guys thought of this one.
> 
> I have a few others in mind. I think I want to do six. Which means two more stories for Crowley, and two more for Aziraphale! So stay tuned for those. Bye~

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here's the next installment of my Good Omens Fairytale collection! Much the same as the first one, it ties in elements of the original Grimm story with the Disney one! I also tried to alter my writing style to take on a more quirky, sarcastic voice. Enjoy my lovelies!


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